


Spinning Matchsticks into Needles

by amycarey



Series: Going Back to Hogwarts [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amycarey/pseuds/amycarey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Mills is bad at feelings and talking and just generally being a human person. Emma Swan keeps flirting with her. Never underestimate the potential for Gryffindors to get themselves into terrible and awkward situations.</p><p>Hogwarts AU that is really just two teachers hanging out and talking about lesson plans and wanting to make out with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spinning Matchsticks into Needles

**Author's Note:**

> For CapBen who suggested this as an AU. Thanks! I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Brief mentions of suicide and botched abortion. I'd rather err on the side of caution in terms of triggers.

Regina’s settled into to her quarters with a cup of cocoa (liberally doused with Firewhiskey) and a copy of the latest Witch Weekly when there’s a knock at her door. Sighing, she ties her robe more tightly around her waist, slips her feet into slippers and opens it.

“Professor Blanchard,” she says, sighing. “What can I do for you?” She’s never liked the woman, not since… Well, Regina doesn’t care to dwell on the past. Not anymore.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course,” Regina says. “Take a seat.”

There’s this awkward silence as Blanchard settles herself into Regina’s chair (because of course she would take the most comfortable arm chair irrespective of the fact that Regina’s cocoa is resting on the side table next to it and she has to shift her magazine out of the way to sit). Regina taps her fingers impatiently against the side of her second best chair. “I don’t have all night,” she says eventually.

“Of course,” Blanchard says. “Professor Lucas has tendered her resignation.”

Regina curses inwardly. The young Defence professor had been Regina’s only real friend on staff, the only teacher not totally, one hundred percent earnest about the job of moulding young wizarding minds. “Did she give a reason?”

“She’s been accepted into Auror training,” Blanchard says, pride in her eyes. She’s been campaigning tirelessly for a change in the laws that ban werewolves from working in law enforcement and the laws have finally been repealed. Regina should be happy about this and she is, really. It’s been Ruby’s dream, but she’s also selfish.

“I assume you’re coming to me for a particular reason,” Regina says.

“Two things,” she says. “Firstly, the position of Head of Gryffindor is open and Ruby suggested you.” She doesn’t look happy about this. 

“I’m surprised you remember I was a Gryffindor,” Regina says, frowning. That’d been a fun conversation with her mother back when she was eleven, her mother furious that she’d let herself be sorted into that house, with those vermin who accept Mudbloods and Half-breeds. 

“Yes, well,” Blanchard says. “I’d like to offer you the role. Merlin knows, you’ve earned our trust time and time again.”

“I accept,” Regina says promptly, before Blanchard can take it back. “What was the other thing?”

“We’ve found a replacement for Ruby,” she says and Regina gets the feeling she’s not going to like this. “Emma Swan.”

Regina must have gone pale. Her lips are tight and pursed. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“She’s not seventeen anymore, Regina,” Blanchard says and has the audacity to try and take Regina’s hand. Regina snatches it away. 

“Your adopted daughter was not exactly the model student,” Regina says. In her first year teaching, Emma Swan had been in her NEWT level Transfiguration class. Her work ethic had been substandard, though when under pressure she excelled. Regina had ridden her hard. “I don’t care that your parents are both professors,” she’d said too many times to recall an exact moment. “I expect more from you, Miss Swan.” 

“Her real-world experience will be invaluable to our students,” Blanchard says. Regina knows by the set of her lips that her mind is made up. “I had wondered if you would mentor–”

“No.” 

“All right,” Blanchard says, though she looks disappointed, big eyes glowing with hurt because how could anyone not adore her precious daughter? “I’ll leave you to your evening.”

Regina wastes no time in moving back to her seat. Her cocoa, now lukewarm, is easily heated with a charm but the calm evening she was anticipating is no longer possible. She remembers a night, far too long ago, where she returned to her classroom to grab her marking and found Emma Swan in need of considerable assistance. The agitation, worry, fury, sweeps over her again.

And of course, Emma Swan is in the latest _Witch Weekly_. She’s something of a celebrity now, nicknamed the ‘Saviour’ by the over-zealous Sidney Glass, editor of _The Daily Mail_ , for her role in taking down the leader in the recent spate of half-breed killings and rescuing several adorable small children. There’s a series of photographs, Emma Swan smiling, white teeth gleaming. There’s some discomfort in her poses; her movements are forced and awkward. The final image is of Swan with her arms wrapped around a young boy, dark brown hair and his mother’s chin and eyes. In this photo she seems calmer, less frenetic. 

The article isn’t much, one of those Q&A sessions that _Witch Weekly_ seems enamoured with. Regina snorts her way through questions about Swan’s diet, guilty pleasures and love life, her frustration with the questions seeping off the pages, and throws the magazine into the fireplace, using her wand to set it alight.

*

Of course Emma Swan is late to the feast. She arrives just in time to see her son sorted into Gryffindor, slipping into a seat beside her mother and clapping enthusiastically. Her father, Professor Nolan, the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, kisses her cheek. 

“Welcome,” Blanchard says, waving her hands from the podium for quiet. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts. I know you will work hard, strive for success and do your houses proud. I am pleased to announce that Professor Mills has been named the new head of house for Gryffindor. We also have a new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Swan.” Emma Swan waves, smiling uncomfortably. Blanchard waves her hands again and the gold plates are now full of food.

She finds herself watching Emma more than she wishes, seeing her talk with her parents, who are smothering her with attention. Professor French, Arithmancy professor and head of Ravenclaw, is on one side of her and smiles. “It’s lovely to see past students come back to teach, isn’t it, Regina?”

Regina shrugs. “You don’t think it stinks of nepotism?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“I would but I’m pretty sure Emma’s proven herself to be more than capable in her field,” she says, and smiles. Regina’s lip curls. Of course Belle French loves Emma Swan. Everyone in this place does. She leaves the feast as early as possible, before most of the students and is unsurprised to find she is being followed by Emma Swan.

“Hey, Professor Mills, wait up,” she calls out. Regina resists the urge to ignore her, turns and faces Emma. Her dark robes don’t disguise the fact that she’s wearing jeans underneath and what appear to be dragon hide boots paired with them. Of course Emma Swan couldn’t possibly dress appropriately for teaching. 

“Yes?” Regina asks, eyebrow raised. 

“Um,” Emma says. She’s let her blonde hair grow long; it curls and weaves around her shoulders, incongruous with her no-nonsense image.

“Articulate as always, Miss Swan.”

“So you’re the new head of Gryffindor,” Emma says, ignoring the ‘Miss’ that should really be ‘Professor’. 

“Yes,” she says.

Emma’s next words come out in a rush. “Look out for Henry, would you?”

“I shall treat your son the same as I would any other student,” Regina says.

“I just worry,” Emma says. There’s a seriousness in Emma’s attitude that was not present at seventeen, a defiant set to her shoulders and worry lines around her eyes. Regina’s eye is drawn to the scar through her left eyebrow, remnants of her life as an auror, one would presume.

“How sweet,” Regina says. “You weren’t worrying about him quite so much when I found you trying to get rid of him.” She regrets the words the moment they escape her; they’re beneath her and cruel and she promised herself after her mother died that she would never be needlessly cruel.

Emma freezes for a moment. Her face contorts, nostrils flaring, lips forming a snarl, cheeks blushing pink. “Fuck you, Professor Mills.” And, turning her heel, she storms in the other direction. Well, Regina thinks. Not so different after all.

*

Henry Swan, it turns out, is a delight. He’s in her Transfiguration class, sits two rows from the front and impresses her with how quickly he grasps the principles she’s discussing. They start with matchsticks into needles, the usual, and Regina roams the classroom, correcting wand placement and pronunciation. 

“Mister Swan,” she says when she passes by his desk. “Give it a try.”

She’s expecting the same laissez-faire attitude of his mother but Henry screws up his face with effort and performs the incantation. His matchstick is shiny and silver, though still match-shaped. “Damn,” he curses under his breath.

“An excellent first effort,” Regina says and is heartened to see his little face light up. 

“Thanks, Professor,” he says. “Hey, did you teach my mother when she was here?”

“In her final year,” Regina says. What has Swan said about her?

“Was she a good student?” he asks.

“She was awful,” Regina says. “Never handed her homework in on time.” 

Henry laughs. “She owes me a galleon!”

“Yes, well,” Regina says, discomfited by this revelation into the relationship between the Swan mother-son duo, and moves on to the next group. “The wand is not a spear, Mister Zimmer. Please do not hold it like one.”

She doesn’t teach last period on Fridays, so at the end of the week she decides to walk by Emma Swan’s classroom at the end of the lesson, apologise and tell her how well Henry seems to be doing. She finds Henry there, sharing a cup of tea with his mother. The classroom is a mess, bits of paper everywhere and the room smells strongly of the spray deodorant with which fourteen year old boys are so enamoured. 

“Hey, Professor Mills,” Henry says, waving. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Regina says formally.

“You’re not,” Henry says. “Right, Ma?”

Emma looks at Regina and she just looks tired. She shrugs, which Henry takes as acquiescence. “How was the rest of your first week, Mister Swan?” Regina asks.

“Awesome,” he says. “I love Transfiguration especially, I think.”

Regina smiles. “I’m pleased to hear that.” Although she had preferred Defence and Charms when at school proper, it’s Transfiguration that she’s kept coming back to. It’s Transfiguration that she can teach, and teach well. She’s lifted OWL achievement by 30 percent and her NEWT students do not get below Exceeds Expectations. 

Henry glances at the clock on the wall. “I said I’d meet Nick and Ava to play Gobstones!” he says. “Sorry, Ma. See you tomorrow.” He hugs her without reservation and Emma kisses his cheek. “See you, Professor,” he says to Regina, who smiles back at him.

Emma stands and Regina does too. “What happened in here last lesson?” she asks.

“Fourth year Slytherins,” Emma says. “I kind of lost my rag at them.”

Regina takes in her clothes, casual jeans and tank top, dragon hide boots. Although the tank top displays the strength in her arms and she’s sure the jeans are better for movement than swishing robes that get caught in desks and set on fire by struggling second years, it just won’t do. “Well, you’re never going to gain Slytherin’s respect dressing like a Muggle,” she says.

“Of all the bigoted…”

“I’m merely stating a fact, Miss Swan,” Regina says. “Don’t get self-righteous. I suggest a seating plan. Split up the key players. The moment anything misbehavioural happens, confiscate their wands. Make an example of someone early on by sending them to Blanchard or their head of house.”

Emma nods, pulls out her wands and sends the bits of paper flying into a rubbish bin. “Be a bitch, you mean?”

“You don’t need them to like you, Miss Swan. You need their respect,” Regina says. “I might get called a ‘bitch’ occasionally…”

“More than occasionally,” Emma mutters.

“…but I get results and my students respect me for it,” she finishes.

“Thanks, I guess,” Emma says begrudgingly. “It’s more than anyone’s given me starting in this job.”

“Consider it an apology,” Regina says smoothly. 

“It’s not though, is it?” Emma says. 

“No, I suppose not,” Regina says. “But then you never thanked me for saving your life that night so I’d say we’re even.”

Emma laughs, though the sound is mirthless. It echoes around the stone classroom.

“Your mother asked me if I would mentor you,” Regina says. “I said no, but I’m starting to reconsider.”

“Don’t put yourself out,” Emma says, rolling her hazel eyes. 

“It wouldn’t do for the head of Gryffindor to let an ex-student fail,” Regina says but her heart is lightened by Emma’s eye roll, by the understanding that her comment has been, if not forgotten, then forgiven.

*

Although she starts by meeting Emma in the staffroom, it becomes clear that discussing pedagogy in front of her parents is making Emma intensely uncomfortable (and Regina as well, if it comes to that). They start going to the Three Broomsticks on Fridays after school is out for the week. 

Emma is a lightweight. Two Firewhiskeys down and she’s giggly and pink-cheeked, all thoughts of teaching forgotten. “You know,” she says, looking appraisingly at Regina and biting into a chip. “I thought you were a total babe when I was at school.”

Regina feels the flush seep into her skin. “No you didn’t. You thought I was, and I quote, ‘a bitch’.”

“Well, that too. But, oh my God, every time you kept me in after class I hoped you’d bend me over the desk and have your way with me.”

“Miss Swan!” Regina says. It’s suddenly far too warm in the crowded pub and Regina’s regretting the third glass of mead. Images flash through her mind, not entirely unpleasant, of Emma on a desk, clenching her fists into Regina’s hair and shuddering as Regina goes down on her. “This is completely inappropriate.”

“Not your student now, _Professor_ ,” Emma says and, oh my God, is she flirting?

“You’re drunk, Miss Swan,” Regina says, dampening down the steady throb of her heart that quickens at the thought. “I suggest we return to the school.”

Emma’s hung-over expression of horror when she sees Regina at the breakfast table the next morning is something she will treasure. Regina waves coquettishly, fluttering her eyelashes and licking her lips, and Emma chokes on her coffee. As Regina leaves the table, she is sure to lean in to Emma and murmur breathily in her ear, “ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Swan.”

*

“Thank you,” Mary Margaret says over dinner on Saturday. She sat down beside Regina at the high table, unusual because they normally attempt to keep as much distance between them as possible.

“For what?”

“Helping Emma,” she says.

“I had to,” Regina says. “Poor girl was going to get buried alive. Did you not organise anyone to talk her through lesson plans and general classroom management?”

Blanchard shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Ruby left her unit plans behind. How hard can it be?”

She hasn’t been in a classroom for a while, Regina reflects, and when she was it was with a different breed of student, the kind that does their work and doesn’t talk back, and with a different kind of teaching, lecture-style rather than the co-construction and co-operative thinking typically practised today. This is the only reason she refrains from calling Blanchard an idiot. “Really hard,” she says.

When Regina started she was thrown in the deep end too. Fortunately, her type-A personality forced her to master the stroke quickly, but Emma’s the type of person who will flail about hopelessly until someone teaches her to kick. 

*

“Why Gryffindor?” Emma asks. They are sitting in the empty Transfiguration classroom on a Sunday afternoon. Regina had been trying to mark fifth year essays when Emma had snuck in. “The parents are driving me insane,” she’d said, “and Ma’ll never think to look here.” Regina had transfigured one of the student benches into a padded chair.

“Because someone so evil couldn’t possibly be in the noble house of Gryffindor?” Regina returns.

“Indulge me,” she says.

“My mother was furious,” Regina says. “I thought I’d been wishing for Slytherin or, failing that, Ravenclaw, but I look back on that day and realise I was kind of desperate to be good, to be part of something to so unequivocally noble and pure. Of course, that went well.”

Emma knows (of course she does, everyone does) about Regina’s role in the war. How she’d joined a band of freedom fighters, how her mother had performed the Cruciatus curse on their leader until Regina had stepped in and killed him, how she’d crossed over and followed her mother. Some people charitably suggested an Imperius curse but it wasn’t – the blissful sensation of never having to feel would have been a reward, not a punishment.

Cora Mills, a name synonymous these days with death. She’d targeted Hogwarts, the Ministry, Floo networks, all with ruthless efficiency. There are rumours that she controlled the Minister for Magic entirely in the final year of the war. It had never been about Muggleborns or Pure Blood for her, just power, pure and simple. Regina doesn’t regret taking Mary Margaret Blanchard’s deal in the end, doesn’t regret spying and sneaking, doesn’t regret the terrible things she had to do for both sides in the name of freedom… 

“Hat wanted to put me in Hufflepuff,” Emma says. “I beat it down.”

“You would have been a terrible Hufflepuff,” Regina says. “No work ethic.”

Emma’s grading papers, chewing on the tip of the red biro she insists on using (“The Muggle world invented many wonderful things,” she’d said. “And we choose to write with quills and ink.”) “Did it ever occur to you that I was only a slacker in your class?”

Regina stares at her a moment. “Why?”

“Because I liked getting your attention,” she says. “Still do really.”

Regina is a silent. Then, “You catch more flies with honey, Miss Swan.”

“Meaning?”

“Do I really have to spell it out?”

“Indulge me,” Emma says, grinning.

“I find you much more appealing now, working hard, trying to better yourself, than I ever did when you forgot your homework.”

Emma grins. “Why do you think I’m working so hard? Seventeen-year-old me had no game. Twenty-nine-year-old me has game coming out her ass.”

Regina finds she doesn’t have an answer to this.

*

She’s having that same nightmare, the one where she holds her mother’s heart in her hand, crushes it, listens to Cora Mills scream and convulse on the floor. Her hands are stained with blood. 

Knock-knock-knock. The sound is frantic, sounds like a heartbeat. She crushes the heart to dust. But the sound continues. Someone’s at the door.

She wakes. It’s late on Sunday afternoon and she’s sitting at her desk, head planted on a second year’s turgid essay. “One moment,” she calls automatically. She takes a moment to straighten her robes.

Emma Swan’s at the door. “Hey,” she says. “I thought we could go for a walk, mark at a café in Hogsmeade for a bit.” Then she starts. “Are you alright?”

Regina runs a hand through her hair. “Fine,” she says. “Do I have ink on my face?”

“You’re not okay,” Emma decides. “You look like death.” She pushes into Regina’s quarters, boils the kettle and physically pushes Regina down into her armchair, Regina taking a moment to enjoy the touch of Emma’s hands, however rough, against her shoulders. “Stay there,” she says. 

“Bossy,” Regina mutters. Her throat feels scratchy and dry and her heart is still pounding too fast. Emma comes over with a cup of tea, sweetened with honey, and forces it into Regina’s hands. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Emma says, and sits on the footstool at her feet. She’s practically touching Regina’s knees, and stretches her long legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankle. “What’s up?”

“Nightmare,” Regina says. “I always get them when I’m sick.”

“Do you need the infirmary?” 

Regina shakes her head. “It’s a cold. It’ll pass.” Emma is staring at her strangely, hazel eyes wide and serious. “What?”

“It’s just,” Emma blushes. “Nothing.” 

Regina’s head is throbbing and she sips at her tea, feeling the hot liquid sooth her throat. “Spit it out, Swan.”

“Oh, I like it when you call me that; very naughty schoolgirl,” Emma says and then blushes a ferocious shade of red. Regina laughs until she coughs. “Shut up,” Emma says. “God, I swear you goad me into saying these things.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, dear,” Regina says. “How’s Henry?”

“He’s good. He’s joined the chess club like a little nerd,” Emma says. “What was your nightmare about?”

“My mother,” Regina says without thinking. “It was fifteen years ago. I should be able to put it behind me.”

“Put killing your mother behind you?” Emma asks. “I don’t think you can ever do that.”

Regina remembers being given the potion to put in her mother’s drink; the potion, Mary Margaret Blanchard had told her, would make her mother feel real remorse. She didn’t tell Regina that the remorse would kill her, leave her choking to death on the floor, calling desperately to Regina for help. The heart in her dreams is a metaphor and it’s not really her mother’s heart, it’s hers. “I suppose not,” she says.

Emma eyes her for a moment. “You were in a relationship with him, weren’t you?” she asks. Regina doesn’t bother to ask who she means. Daniel. The head of the resistance within Hogwarts and then beyond. They’d been eighteen, so in love, so brave. So fucking stupid. 

“I loved him,” Regina says. “And my mother tortured him until all I could do was end his suffering.”

“My mother told me,” Emma says. Regina feels a stab of anger in her belly. “I asked,” she adds. “She’s not gossiping. I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Regina says. “I have a question.”

“Anything,” Emma says.

“Why my classroom? You could have gone anywhere.”

Emma knows what she’s talking about. “I didn’t grow up with family.” Regina knows the story. Mary Margaret Blanchard was cursed in her youth and the curse made her infertile. She and David Nolan had instead spent their years devoted to nurturing young minds at Hogwarts. And then Emma came along, an orphan, living in foster homes, abused and mistreated, and they’d adopted her aged eleven, just a bit too old to really become a family. “I couldn’t bear their reaction. I knew that no matter what, you wouldn’t tell.”

“What made you think that?” Regina asks.

“I’m pretty good at reading people,” Emma says. “It’s what made me a good auror. It’s what, alarmingly, makes me a good mother. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

Regina recalls that night. Emma on the ground almost unconscious, blood pooling around her waist and hips. She remembers the terror she felt. “You could have died. You nearly did.” She’s been haunted about what would have happened if she’d decided to leave her marking until the next day.

Emma’s silent for a moment. “Did it occur to you that I might have thought that was for the best?”

“It wasn’t,” Regina says after a moment’s silence. “I mean, you’re a pain but you’re my pain.” The moment the words are out she regrets them.

Emma raises her eyebrows and grins. “Why, Professor Mills, such tender feelings.”

“Regina,” she says because in for a penny, in for a pound right?

“All right, _Regina_ ,” Emma says and it’s almost a purr – although maybe it’s just that Regina’s delirious from illness. “Call me Emma.” She stands. “I’ll let you rest.” She places a gentle kiss on Regina’s forehead and throws a blanket over her.

Regina’s off sick for four days. She doesn’t see Emma, though Professor Blanchard comes to check on her regularly. Regina enjoys being sick because she can be snappy and irritable to Blanchard without coming off as rude. She suspects that Blanchard knows this and that’s why she comes to visit. A penance of sorts.

On Friday, she’s well enough to teach, though her teaching does involve a lot of ‘quiet time’ with the text book, which is fine for her seniors but less great for her third years. Still she goes to Emma’s classroom after classes are over for the day. She’s packing up – the room is tidy, though Emma’s desk is a mess of papers. Regina resists the urge to tidy it. 

Emma’s smile when she sees Regina is wide and makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Hey! You feeling better?”

Regina smiles back. “Better, yes,” she says, voice still husky from the sore throat.

“We don’t need to go to Hogsmeade today,” she suggests. 

“I would like some fresh air,” Regina says so they walk companionably out to the gates and apparate to the pub. Regina orders them Butterbeers (Emma’s taken to staying sober during their meetings since her confessions the first time) and Granny finds them a private room because the noise is making Regina’s head throb.

“Henry’s missed you,” Emma says. “He says the substitute has been total crap.”

Regina feels a glow hearing those words. “How’s your week gone?” she asks.

“Good,” Emma says. “I think I’ve got the Slytherins under control. It’s now just a rogue band of Hufflepuff fifth years to deal with.”

“Hufflepuffs,” Regina scoffs.

“Hey,” Emma says darkly. “Don’t underestimate the power of teamwork.”

Regina laughs. “Oh, Emma.” It’s the first time she’s called Emma by her name and she suddenly feels self-conscious about it, taking a long swig of Butterbeer.

Emma smiles. “I like that,” she says, her voice a low, seductive rumble. Her knee rubs against Regina’s under the table and Regina feels a surge of lust and then, bubbling up beneath it, panic. She’s sitting close, too close. Their foreheads almost touch as they talk and Regina can’t stop staring at Emma’s lips, pink and appealing.

“Well, I should get back,” Regina says, looking at her wrist, realising she’s not wearing a watch and freaking out internally. 

“Hey,” Emma says, grabbing her wrist as she goes to leave. “Have I totally misread something? I thought maybe we were flirting.”

Regina looks at Emma, whose lips are twisted up at one side. She looks nervous. Regina wrenches her arm away. “Yes,” she lies. “You misread completely.”

Emma stares at her a moment. “Okay,” she says. “I won’t do it again.”

*

The following Friday, Regina tells herself that things are normal and goes to meet Emma. “I think we should meet in the staff room,” Emma says. “It’s more appropriate for professional discussions.”

So they sit in the staffroom while Blanchard and Nolan look on, and Emma is ruthlessly professional, asking Regina’s advice about the wording of her learning intentions for an upcoming unit on the unforgivable curses and outlining her plans for inquiry learning with her third years. Given that she didn’t know what a learning intention was a month ago Regina should be beaming with pride. Instead, her heart aches. 

She starts skipping dinner, requesting food from the kitchens to be sent to her quarters. She can’t bear to look across the table and see Emma, joking with Belle French or deep in conversation with Gold, the head of Slytherin and Divination teacher, and not paying her the slightest bit of attention.

And then Henry is caught attempting to duel with a Hufflepuff girl. They only shower sparks at each other before being caught so Regina’s inclined to be lenient and Professor Hopper, their head of house, agrees. Regina takes ten points from each house and has Henry in detention with her for the week, cleaning desks of gum and graffiti with Professor Hopper giving the same punishment. 

Mostly she grades papers, content to ignore him while he gets on with the business of being disciplined, but on the third night in, she asks him. “Why did you really duel?” Both students had insisted it was a joke but Regina had seen the anger in Henry’s eyes.

“She called Ma some pretty awful things,” he mutters, scrubbing at a patch of desk as though he hopes to wear through to the other side.

“What?” Regina asks; barks really.

“Dyke,” Henry says. “And slut.” The words are muttered as though he’s ashamed of just saying them aloud. 

It takes all of Regina’s self-control not to storm out immediately, find the girl and bring her to justice. Has nothing changed in the past twenty years? “You know they’re just words,” she says, coming over and sitting on a bench by Henry.

To his credit, he gives her a look, like ‘no, duh?’ “It’s just the way she said them,” he says. “I had to defend her. It was a matter of honour.”

“Honour, was it?” Regina asks. “That’s very chivalrous of you, Henry, but I’m sure your mother would prefer you avoid getting suspended.”

“Yeah,” Henry says. “But she might be proud of me too instead of just pissed off.”

“Does she know why you did it?”

“No,” he says. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. She’s stressed enough.”

“May I tell her?” Regina says. “I think she needs to know if first years are spreading rumours so that she can combat them if she wishes.” Regina’s had more rumours spread about her than she can possibly keep track of, though they normally focus on the fact that she’s evil, probably plotting to kill them all while they sleep, rather than on her sexual preferences.

Henry shrugs. “I guess. I don’t want her to be upset. She’s been kind of moody all week.” 

“You’re done here,” she says. “Go have dinner.” 

Henry leaves, stopping at the door to say, “Thanks, Professor Mills.” She’s never been thanked after detention before, a most novel experience. 

She scribbles a note for Emma, asking her to meet her for a cup of tea in her quarters after dinner. She hopes she’ll accept. Then, she goes to see Professor Hopper. She knows Hopper. He’ll have a lengthy discussion about sexuality and freedom of choice and discrimination and how language has power in his quiet and earnest way until the poor girl wants to die. It’s a fitting punishment. 

Beware the nice ones.

*

Emma knocks at her door shortly after seven and Regina panics. Smoothing away her anxiety into a Stepford mask, she opens the door. Emma’s dressed in jeans and those dreadful boots again and her forehead is creased with worry. “Is Henry okay?”

“Henry’s fine, Miss Swan,” Regina says, preparing tea. 

Emma exhales. “Okay. Good. I just, the whole duel business…”

“What I wanted to talk to you about is connected to that,” Regina says, handing Emma a mug and taking a draught of her own Irish Breakfast blend. 

“I’m furious with him,” Emma admits. “I thought he was better than that, better than me.”

“He didn’t want to tell you why he did it,” Regina says. “But he’s letting me do so. The girl called you some horrible names.”

“He was defending my honour,” Emma says. “Of course he was.”

“You don’t seem surprised,” Regina says. “Biscuit?”

Emma selects a large chocolate biscuit and dips it in her tea. “It’s just him and me,” she says. “He has a sort of misguided idea that he should rescue me from situations.”

“It’s sweet really,” Regina says. She likes Henry. She doesn’t want him to get in trouble.

“Yeah, because he’s eleven,” Emma says. “When he’s eighteen and gets a stint in Azkaban for beating someone bloody it’ll be less cute.”

“So obviously there are some rumours being spread,” Regina says. She doesn’t like to think about Azkaban. The school had dementors guarding it several years ago when a dangerous convict escaped and the damn creatures just about had her passing out every time she walked on the school grounds. Too many bad memories. 

“There’s always rumours,” Emma says gently. “I’m not really bothered.” She smiles; it’s goofy, scrunching up her face. “Thanks for telling me though.”

“You’re welcome,” Regina says. “Hey, about the other week…”

“I’m sorry,” Emma says. “I forget myself sometimes.”

“No,” Regina says. “I mean, I…” Oh hell, she thinks, and, surging forward, she cups Emma’s face in her hands and kisses her. 

Emma stills for a moment, just the briefest of moments and Regina has already started to panic, when she responds, her hands weaving through Regina’s hair, her mouth hot and fierce against Regina’s, her body arching forward.

“Wow,” Emma murmurs when they break apart. “That was the culmination of every teenage fantasy I ever had.”

“Every fantasy?” Regina asks, quirking an eyebrow because when Emma’s looking at her like she’s the moon and stars there’s no room for self-doubt or anxiety.

“Well,” Emma says, hand tapping up Regina’s leg and mouth curving into a grin. “Not _every_ fantasy.”

And Regina shifts forward and kisses the grin off Emma’s face.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeaaah, I don't even know. This really did not need to be set at Hogwarts except that it was such a delight writing in the setting of my oldest fandom again. It's really just two teachers hanging out and being flirty. Never mind. I tried. I'd love feedback, especially as this is the first time I haven't relied on Emma's POV as a crutch.


End file.
